


Good Enough

by littlecreek



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 05:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlecreek/pseuds/littlecreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick adventure gone awry, completely useless conversation prompt cards, and channeling the chaos.</p><p>Note: features PTSD/rape recovery, but does not include explicit material.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Enough

1

Well this was a right cockup if ever there was one. There had been no time. No time to negotiate, no time for a plan. Not that he ever had one really, but that was beside the point. They hadn’t even gotten started. The Doctor raced down the corridor after Clara, scrambling for a way to salvage the mess they’d made. He’d made, if he was honest. There was nothing for it. They were going to have to scrap it and call it a loss. It was a thing that happened, sometimes. The running was good, though. Comforting in an ‘I’m not dead yet’ kind of way. They heard pounding boots behind them. Clara flashed him a look and he nodded. They weren’t going to make it to the next corner. She darted into a room ahead. Still too far away. So he threw himself sideways through the next archway and shut the door.

The Doctor slid down the wall and slowed his breathing. Forced his body to relax, his muscles to release. Tapped out the seconds on his thigh. The station walls muffled any sound from the corridor, but he knew the guards would be on their way to the kitchens. He and Clara had at least three minutes before they could risk a dash to the Tardis on the upper floor. Much more than that, and the guards would realize their mistake. The cool metal against his back was raising goose flesh on his arms. It was wonderful after the running. The Doctor let his head tip back against the wall and felt a buzzing through his skull. Not unpleasant, but slightly disorienting. He imagined Clara in the next room, a mirror of himself, almost touching but impossibly distant. A flicker and then it was another him, another wall, another companion. Time slowed to a crawl. He shook his head to clear it, throat tight, memory gone. Fingers tapping out the seconds: 178, 179, 180. Time to move.

He pushed himself to his feet, stiff and sluggish from cold as he crept through the empty corridor. The door ahead was locked, but a few tweaks from his sonic and it hissed open. He called softly into the dark. “It’s me. Let’s go.” He was beginning to wonder if Clara had already gone on ahead when she tumbled out and fell hard on the tiles. She pulled out of his reach and struggled up to her feet. That's when the smell hit. Humans always come off a bit strong, but this was something else altogether. Stale sweat cut by the sharp bite of fear, mixed with a putrid stink that rolled off in asphyxiating waves. “Clara, what…” She was already running.

Back in the safety of the Tardis, The Doctor laughed. “Do you know, I think we may have just set a new record for our fastest escape yet.”

Clara stood, blinking at him over the console, torn jumper, messy hair, her face stretched and eyes wide. He was missing something. Or was that the way she usually looked? “What is it?”

“Really. You’re doing jokes now?”

“Well, I don’t know. It wasn’t that funny,” he huffed.

“No. It wasn’t.”

He bristled at the unexpected hostility in her voice. “Look, I know it wasn’t a grand adventure, but there are always going to be times when it doesn’t work out. And you have to admit that fourteen minutes is pretty short. But it hey, it wasn’t a complete disaster. We didn’t get caught this time.”

“Fourteen minutes. Didn’t get caught.”

She was still looking at him in that odd way, but the edge in her voice had faded. What was that supposed to mean? There was a book somewhere around here on human emotional expression. Really should brush up one of these days. He cleared his throat and busied himself at the console. “Right. Anyway, you'll want to freshen up a bit before I drop you back at the school. You smell atrocious. What was in that room? A bugblatter beast from Trall?” He glanced over and saw anger building in her eyes and furrowed brow. That had to be anger, didn’t it? Or was it concern. He always got those two mixed up. “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know. You did bring your towel with you, I hope?” He hadn’t been able to resist, and now he’d done it. It had been anger after all.

“I don’t need any reminders from you of how disgusting I am, thanks.” And she was storming away.

The relief and giddiness of their escape had gone, and the Doctor was left with a vague sense of unease. He had missed something important, he knew that much. The Tardis was radiating disapproval. “Well you know what she’s like,” he thought furiously. “It’s been ages since we had a row. Bound to happen. Not my fault.”

 

2

Clara fled to the nearest loo and shut herself inside. What the hell was going on? Fourteen minutes? Didn’t get caught? None of it made the least sense and she was already stretched to breaking. Maybe she’d been drugged. There could’ve been some kind of hallucinogenic space gas thing and none of it had actually happened. It was all in her head. She considered. No. It was still too horribly real, even now. She looked down at the stains on her ruined jumper but her eyes wouldn't focus. She turned it over and over, looking desperately for an answer that wouldn’t confirm this madness. There wasn’t one. He must have run to the Tardis ahead of her, popped off to the vortex to avoid the guards, then gotten the time wrong on the return. Yes, that would be just like him. She pushed the anger down. She’d always known there was risk. Not his fault. If he didn’t know, she wasn’t going to tell him.

She flung her clothes into a bin and turned on the shower. When the water was as hot as she could stand it, she started to wash. Didn’t look down until the water ran clear, didn’t stop scrubbing until her skin was raw and pink, nearly bleeding. She tucked herself into a ball and let the water drum on her head and back. She barely felt it. Watched herself drifting, skipping back and forth through the last few hours. She tried to focus, play it out in order, make sense of it, but she couldn’t pin it down. With a start she realized she was still in the shower. Must have been for awhile now. She needed to pull it together. There were things she needed to see to, things that couldn’t wait. She turned off the water, wrapped herself in the fluffy bathrobe the Tardis supplied for her, and crept down the corridor.

An hour later she was dressed and on her way back to the console room. She paused at the doorway and arranged her face into what she hoped was a calm and cheerful expression. All right, just breathe.

“Hey,” she said as she walked up the steps. “Sorry about earlier, I was… out of sorts. Shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“No, no, no. No. Don’t. I shouldn’t have pushed it. I wouldn’t have been in a good mood either if I’d smelled like that.” He flashed a cheeky grin that faltered as the pause stretched uncomfortably long.

This was going to be harder than she’d thought. She forced her face back into a smile, taking care to wrinkle the corners of her eyes. “Well I’ve washed now. Take me home, yeah?”

“Oh! I thought since this one was a dud maybe you’d like to try someplace new. No, I guess not. Home, not to the school? Right. I’ll just…” The Doctor fiddled with the controls.

And then she was back in her flat listening to the Tardis fade. Clara looked around, at the neat rows of books on the shelves, the early morning light bleeding through the curtains, the photos, the potted plants, the mugs collected in the sink. She sat on the carpet and ran her fingers over the coarse wool. None of this was real. It was familiar, the empty ache. The loss and grief. So. This was how it was going to be. At least this was something she knew how to deal with. She’d just have to muddle through until the newness of it dulled. She picked herself up, smoothed her clothes, and went to work.

By lunchtime Clara realized she’d made a mistake. Should have seen it coming, really. This wasn’t just memory and grief, it was fear. Pure, crystallized fear that couldn’t be willed away or pounded into submission. It was a paralyzing panic, unpredictably brought on by nearly everything and everyone around her. She feigned a stomach ache and went home, where she promptly shut herself in her room, pulled the curtains, and didn’t come out for four days.

 

3

It had been a while since The Doctor had heard from Clara. He was beginning to worry. He’d tried calling. Left 137 voicemails. Been to her favorite coffee shop twice. Waited in her flat. He finally cornered her in a supply cupboard at the school.

Clara gave him what might have been an exasperated frown and pulled him back into the Tardis. “What are you doing? You know they can't see you or you’ll have to answer for the mess you made last time. Listen, I’m just too busy to travel right now. I’ve got grading to do, and conferences are coming up, and…” Ah, good. Exasperation. See? He was getting the hang of this.

The Doctor laughed. “Busy? Ah, come on. You're not busy. Busy is what you tell someone when you’re avoiding them.” He coughed and sputtered, “Ah. Well. Anyway. It’s been months. I’m bored! And we’ve been through this. Time machine. You won’t miss a thing. Come on.”

Clara snorted and lowered her brow. “It’s been six weeks. Sometimes you disappear for ages. Here’s a hint: when someone doesn’t answer your messages, maybe they don’t want to talk. Believe it or not, this isn’t about you or your boredom. Also, my job may not be as ‘cool’ as saving the universe one deranged despot or misunderstood monster at a time, but it is quite important to me actually.”

He could see he’d put his foot in it again. Yes, he defiantly had this emotional expression thing figured out now. “Don’t be silly. Of course it’s important. But I’ve always got back on time, haven’t I?”

Clara regarded him coolly. “No, you haven’t.”

“Well, you can’t count that. There was a black hole! We got a flat. And it was on a weekend. Anyway. I’ve always been back when it mattered.” He was on the defensive again, the unfairness of it grated.

She was in full strop. “You haven’t! You really haven’t, you have no idea, you..” She trailed off, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Maybe he shouldn’t have chucked that book out just yet. The Doctor reached for her. “Clara, it’s fine. It’s fine. You don’t have to…”

“Don’t you touch me!” she cut in, shouting properly now. “Don’t you dare touch me, and don’t you dare tell me it’s fine. It isn’t fine. Absolutely nothing about any of this is fine.”

The Doctor backed up, palms raised in contrition. “What is this about?"

Her face hardened. “You left,” she spit out. “Last time. You left me in that room, and I thought you’d really gone. I thought I’d never come home.”

He was confused, which usually was even more irritating than dealing with shouty, over-emotional people. But the irritation was draining away, replaced by a tugging hollow in his stomach. “What are you talking about? I never left...”

She was suddenly calm and quiet. “You did. I ought to know.”

“Don't be ridiculous, I was just in the next room. It was only three minutes. I counted.”

“I lost count.”

A chill joined the tugging in his gut. The buzz of the walls, the slowing of time. He had thought it was just his memory, but then… the locked door, Clara’s face, the mess of hair and clothing, the stink and fear on her. He truly was an idiot. A compression chamber. Where had they gotten that kind of technology? Well it didn’t matter now. The damage was done.

“Clara, that room must have had some kind of time compression circuit. It was only minutes on the outside...” He went on and on, speaking slowly, hoping she’d understand. He would never have abandoned her by choice.

“Not your fault.” Her voice was dull and flat.

He grimaced and looked away. Didn’t know what else to say, couldn't make this better. They were well past cockup now. And it definitely was his fault this time, just like it was before. His hand reflexively reached for his pocket, the one where he kept the prompt cards. Then he paused, realized too late she wouldn't want comforting with her own words, tried to busy his hands with his tie. He looked up. She’d already seen the movement, knew what it meant. A peace offering, then. “Clara, people like me and you, we should say things to one another.”

“Well I’m not going to say them now. I need to get back.”

He tried to argue as she walked out. The Tardis doors clicked shut behind her. The Doctor swore and leaned back against the console. Why now, with this face? She had needed the spiky one. He was always good with the apologies. Even bow tie wouldn't have mangled it that badly. Instead, she was stuck with him. He replayed their conversation, the cool emptiness in him spreading. Question: Was it possible there was more to it than she’d let on? Nah, she’d have said. He was sure of it. She trusted him, in spite of it all. Of course she did. Conjecture: he’d read her wrong. Again. He set a course for that used bookshop in Hyspero. Then he noticed the careful stillness of the Tardis and spoke aloud. “What do you know, that you’re not telling me?” He waited a moment, spun on his heel, and walked toward the med bay.

 

4

The Doctor was wedged head first through an access panel when the phone started to ring. By the time he got there, the call had gone through to the message system twice. He picked up, said hello, waited. Nothing. Why call if you don’t have anything to say? That’s just plain rude. He ran the audio through background analysis while the computers traced the signal, but there was nothing to analyze. More muttering about rudeness in general. The monitor beeped, the trace was done. Clara.

She sat curled in the corner of her flat, still clutching the phone. “Shouldn’t have called. I’m fine. I’m sorry, just go.” She opened her mouth to speak again, but seemed to think better of it. He surreptitiously ran a scan with the sonic. Mostly normal, pulse high, respiratory rate a bit fast, body temperature low. His fault. He was at a complete loss. He knew what was coming.

He started toward her, stopped when she flinched. “Clara, I’d like to help. Will you let me?” Nothing. “Listen, I’ve just got to… There’s something I need to do first. It’ll only be a minute.” He turned and entered the Tardis, knowing how it must look to her, but that it would look worse if he stayed.

Once inside he stripped his clothes, piece by piece. Off came the jacket, the hoodie, the boots. He took his sonic and laid it gently on the pile. He was down to his trousers, a thin shirt, and socks. Just him. It felt vulnerable. Cold, empty dread creeping up his spine. Good. An even footing.

He pushed through the Tardis doors, settled on the floor, and waited. Tapped the seconds on his knee.

“What happened to your jacket? You’re not very doctory without it.”

“That’s sort of the point. You don’t need saving.” He decided to prod. “What happened?”

“I’m sure you’ve worked it out by now.”

He didn’t deny it. “I’m sorry. I should have...”

“Not your fault.”

“But it was my fault. I am responsible. Always. I should have kept you safe.”

“Safe?” She gave a hollow laugh. “Are you joking? Nobody’s ever safe. Not really.”

“I had duty of care!” His voice was far too loud but there was too much momentum. “It doesn’t matter how many times I win if I always lose in the end. If I can’t keep you safe, what is the bloody point?” He stopped. Took a breath. “Sorry. I’m sorry. That’s not why I’m here. This isn’t about that.” He looked away and jammed his shaking fingers under his arms.

“How many times have you done this?” A flush rose in her cheeks and her voice was stretched and prickly.

“Are you asking about my other companions or about me?" A quick twitch and a shrug. "Either way it’s the same answer. Too many. I should have known better.”

She stiffened and stared blankly through an empty chair. “It could have happened just as easily at home. And I made my own choices.”

“But it didn’t. And those were not your choices, you didn't choose this.” He looked her full in the face, trying to catch her eye. “You’re right. No one is ever safe. That’s what it comes down to. No matter what choices we make, no matter how clever we think we are, no one can control it all. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here then, eh? If you’re not going to save me, avenge me, to lay blame, absolve me, or give me advice?”

“I know there’s not much I can do, that you’ll have to face it on your own terms. Still, I won’t leave you alone with this. Someone once told me to listen. I’d like to try.”

She sat with that for a while. “Alright.” Then she started to talk. And he listened. He pretended not to notice when she slipped into third person, the hitch in her voice, the things she didn’t say, how she squeezed herself to keep from breaking apart. And when she'd talked herself out, he offered his hand. Let her curl her fingers gently around his.

And then he kept on listening. Watched as she threw herself back into life. Pretended not to notice the reckless enthusiasm, the hours she kept, the need for distraction, the times she pushed everyone away, pushed him away. But who was he to judge? He knew she was pretending not to see it in him, too. They settled for good enough, for using the chaos that couldn’t be contained. And if it sometimes got out of hand? Well, that’s life. It just keeps on coming.


End file.
